A Study in Pens
by ThoroughlySherlocked
Summary: Genderswap fic. Some of it's based of Study in Pink and Reichenbach, but the rest is my own imagination. When a student is killed by a stab and possibly cyanide at a university dorm room, it's up to Irene the pathologist and Laura the neurologist , try to solve the case. Please read and review. Be brutally honest about it, I want to know what you all think. It's my first fic.


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It was a dark sky that looked down on Glunfield University. Purple bruised storm clouds, their bellies heavily grayed with rain, obscured what little could be seen of the evening sunset. Bright, pale yellow lightning bolts spewed across the sky, brightening everything within their reach, their jagged edges ripping along the clouds. Thunder shook the university from top to bottom. It was a huge storm, the likes of which had not been seen in many decades. Out of the windows of the topmost dormitory, a girl looked outside, a grin on her face that stretched from ear to ear. She leaned out and let the music of the storm wash over her. If she closed her eyes, then it almost sounded like a symphony of cymbals and drums. The girl picked up a Glunfield University pen and thrust her white gloved hands out of the window. She let the rain cleanse the pen off before returning it to its special velvet case. Peeling off her gloves, she let rainwater flow into them before dumping the liquid out on her windowsill. The substance ran in opaque crimson rivulets and dripped gently down the edges, staining the sandy brick below deep red. But the girl was not worried. The rain would wash away the blood before the day was much older. She knew. Before she slammed the colourfully decorated windows shut, she picked up a clean knife. Gently, putting almost no pressure on the blade, she drew it into the wood above her window. A half- eaten watermelon, with numbers for seeds was engraved in the wall. The girl grinned once more, and went to sleep. A tiny shard of warm yellow light shot the dark. Someone peeked in. All was not well.

Irene and Laura Lockston trudged through heavy sludge at six am. It was an ungodly time to be up, as three quarters of Puddlemere was still fast asleep. They had no choice but to do so, disobeying orders generally cost one one's job, they had realized. The final proof on this matter was the fact that one of their colleagues had been fired simply because he came in twenty minutes late.

Irene and Laura were sisters; although they did not look it. Irene was tall and bony, with unnaturally high cheekbones and shock of curly raven hair and pale green-blue eyes, while Laura was short and lithe with blonde hair and kind, stormy gray eyes. At this particular moment they were walking three miles to work- yes, walking- because all the subways and trams and taxis were out.

Winter was always the most unpleasant season in Puddlemere March. It brought blizzards and snow and more often than not, power outages. This year hadn't been too bad; actually, more power outages occurred than inches of snow.

Irene grumbled as she heaved a small leather briefcase through a mountain of snow that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. She growled in frustration. "I hate this. Why in the name of all that is good do we have to be on time for work? There's a freak snowstorm outside, and our biggest concern is how late we are? That, Laura, is really ridiculous. My poor boots are not going to survive this onslaught of condensed water, I can tell."

Laura rolled her eyes. Irene was, frankly, very annoying when she felt irritated. Her sister was also very vain. That was never a good thing, and when combined with Irene's social skills, or lack thereof, well...

Right now, Irene was in a milder stage of frustration, which Laura appreciated. Her sister could be a major bother when she was bored, irritated, or annoyed.

"Never mind your boots, he just texted me that you, Irene, are going to be one bootless, homeless, penniless woman if you dillydally around like this. Never mind your sodden shoes, RUN!" she yelled.

Irene picked up her pace, going faster by the second. A tall, impressive tower of steel and glass loomed above them; a modern structure that had state-of-the-art technology. This was their hospital, the unimaginatively name Center of Research and Treatment of Brain and Blood Diseases in Puddlemere, otherwise known as CORAT.

They entered the magnificent structure squeaking all the while, due to the unhealthy residue of pond scum, sludge, and moldy carrot tops on their boots- these were the pitiful remains of Irene's 'delectable meal'. She had read somewhere that certain types of algae were edible and healthy to eat. So, Irene being Irene, she decided to cook scum gathered off the fountain in their backyard (this was apparently categorized as 'edible') with a mixture of carrots and carrot tops. The microwave had blown up and splattered her concoction all over the kitchen floor. Laura had been furious, obviously, since the kitchen floor and the countertops had been coated brown-gray-green paste made of something god only knew, and Irene stoutly refused to clean her mess up, saying that she did not know why Laura cared so much about the algae and carrots.

The sisters jumped into an elevator, and hurriedly pressed buttons to get to their respective floors. It took off with a start. Laura uttered a relieved a sigh. "Whew. A minute more and the boss would have had me out."

"I'm just lucky that I ran when you told me to. Otherwise..." She trailed off into silence.

Laura leaped off the elevator and ran into her office, hastily apologizing for her disheveled appearance. She threw her coat on, fixed her hair, and speedwalked towards the door, wondering what patients she would have today.

Irene skidded into her lab, cleaned off her boots with a paper towel, unzipped the body bag, and began the autopsy report. She had an Erika Herald in. A clarinet player and student at Glunfield University, she had been killed by cyanide and a quick, lethal stab to the subclavian artery. It was a rather interesting case, no doubt that the police would be there any second to work upon identifying the killer. Irene sighed. She had chosen to work as a pathologist when she had a perfectly good chance to become a member of the police force as a detective. She had missed out on so much excitement. Oh well. No matter. She bent over her work studiously, taking in every aspect of the clarinet playing student's body.

Laura opened the door to find a young, tired-looking mother and her nine-year old son sitting on adjacent purple chairs. The young woman smiled wearily; she couldn't be more than thirty, thought Laura with a sigh. No one should have bags under their eyes like that at such a young age.

"Hi, I'm Matilda, Jim's mom," she said, standing up and extending a hand. Laura shook it firmly. "Jim's been having seizures more often than usual lately and I am absolutely befuddled about this matter. What should I do?I am not educated in neurology," rushed Matilda. Her hurried statement sounded more than a bit rehearsed.

"Hmm, let's see." murmured Laura, giving the boy a quick, accurate check-up. "No, he appears to be in perfect condition. Has he had any traumatic experiences in his life lately? Anything that caused sudden panic, terror, depression, or anger?"

"No, his father died when he was two; there is absolutely no reason why he should still be grieving over his death now. Well, no reason save his father's death anniversary was last week," she mumbled, clearly embarrassed that she hadn't thought of this reason before.

"Then that must be it," declared Laura. She sounded much more confident than she felt. "It might be something psychosomatic, too, but chances of that being are very, very, slim."

"Thank you," muttered Matilda, still flaming with shame. She departed the office and scampered quickly down the halls, not bothering to glance around and see the many posters for child welfare programs.

"Curious," Laura mentally said. "Very curious."

Midafternoon came and went. Twilight found Laura and Irene packing up their briefcases and heading home. The sky had cleared up quite a bit, and the last bits and pieces of the sunset shone through. It looked nice, like bright, geometrically shaped chunks of scarlet, gold, and mandarin in arranged on a background of dark charcoal gray; the snow reflected it in its entire splendor.

Shadows spilled across the dark, deserted streets of Puddlemere as Irene and Laura headed home.

"So, difficult day at work today?" queried Laura in an effort to make conversation to break the icy silence between her and Irene.

"Hmm." Irene grunted by way of reply. She wasn't necessarily mad at Laura, just thinking.

"How was your day today?" asked Laura again.

This time Irene deigned to exit the corridors of her mind and answer. "Not too bad; I got an Erika Herald in today. She was a clarinet player at Glunfield, killed by a small amount of cyanide then stabbed in the subclavian artery as she died. She had been dead for approximately twenty-four hours, and had an affair with the cab driver we have here."

The poor cabbie blushed crimson down to the tips of his ears.

"Okay, how you know that I really don't want to find out," replied Laura. Irene's methods of finding out information were often unpleasantly illegal.

"Simple- She had a love poem in her pocket from the driver. His nametag and signature correspond exactly with the ones on the card. As he had a dirty ring on, one can guess that it doesn't get much polishing. I'll bet its inside is polished, no doubt from the number of times he takes it on and off. He also has another, which has a clean outside and a dirty inside. Conclusion? Erika Herald had an affair with the cab driver. As further evidence, the cabbie has traces of her lipstick on him," Irene replied, smirking at her sister.

While Irene managed to be a royal pain in the derriere, she was uncannily brilliant at cracking codes, and analyzing and observing situations

"So, I had this Jim boy today, had a fit of seizures lately. It was presumably psychosomatic, but I told the mother otherwise. I didn't want her to be upset, so I told her that it was due to trauma."

Irene snorted.

"Girls, we're here. That will be twenty-eight dollars and ninety eight cents," the cabbie replied icily. He was fuming inwardly at the taller one for having learned that he had an affair with the murder victim. That would make him a major suspect in the case with the police. He would lose his job, and he knew he was most certainly not guilty.

Irene and Laura got out of the cab, and had a silent argument about who was to pay the driver. Laura won. Humphing in anger, Irene snatched her wallet out of her miniature black tote, and handed the driver a wad of one-dollar bills. Whirling around dramatically, her coat billowing around her legs, she stalked off towards the apartment she and Laura shared.

Their shared house was remarkably clean, considering their habits. Sparkling tiled floors, lovely Persian rugs, two worn leather armchairs, two equally worn couches, and sleek, modern floor lamps furnished it attractively. Irene collapsed on her chair with a breath. Pulling her coat off, she let it flop over the armrests. She sprawled herself out like a long, thin dead cat on the armchair with a huge notepad coated in alarmingly yellow smiley faces that wouldn't have looked out of place at a mental institute. She contemplated it for a minute in silence.

"Laura, can I have some of your spray paint please? My notebook needs more faces."

Laura idly threw a small can of yellow paint at her sister. "Okay, as long as the walls don't end up being coated in paint."

Irene had, in fact, decided to spray-paint her notebook once, and gotten distracted. The walls in her room had gotten a sunshine yellow makeover that Laura still hadn't been able to get out. For this reason, Irene was kept away from all cans of paint and strictly not allowed to redecorate.

"So, what's for dinner?" Irene asked her sister after she returned from spray-painting.

"Erm... There's not much, only cheese and bread and spaghetti. The rest was destroyed in the algae fiasco."

"I'll warm the spaghetti up. You can go take a bath. What perfume was Jim's mom wearing? It reeks of dead skunks," commented Irene rather unhelpfully.

If looks could kill, the one Laura sent Irene would have brutally murdered her before she hit the ground.

"That is my new fifty-dollar perfume. It cost me all my savings, so keep off it, would you?" Laura hissed angrily. It appeared to Irene that that was a Bit Not Good.

Laura took a shower and emerged some time later with a towel wrapped around her head. Dinner was a peaceful enough event, with no comments from the sisters about dead skunks (Irene) or trivia about cannibalism (Irene)or the decaying rate of tissue in the brain when faced with mildly acidic substances (Laura). Irene only ate a couple of strands of spaghetti. Laura scolded her. They went to bed.

"Rain still streamed down the windows of Glunfield when the body had been discovered. A student by the name of Brian Bullford had peered in to check on Erika, because, as he stated it, they were very close friends. However, instead of the sight of his friend breathing deeply, he had been greeted with a silence. He went to check on her and found that she was lying in a pool of blood. The scent on almonds was on her tongue. Brian immediately concluded someone had murdered her with cyanide then stabbed her to make death quicker. He had rushed to the desk, picked up her phone, and called the police. It had been three A.M. when he found her, and from the state of things she couldn't have been dead more than two to three hours." The news announcer on TV gestured vaguely to the crime scene behind her, and continued. "By the window, there had been some sign of forced entry and above the windows; the murderer had carved a half-eaten watermelon with numbers for seeds. The police suspect that the killer was victim's enemy Joanna Stoner. Further news of the Glunfield University murder will be given tomorrow."

Laura clicked the television off and snorted. "That's just code for the police not knowing what, or more importantly, who killed her. Half the time with their 'cases', the murderer panics, develops a conscience, and confesses immediately to them. Voila! The police have 'solved' another case!"

"Laura, hurry, you are going to be late for work if you don't!" Irene yelped through the door.

"And what about you? Do you not have to go to the pathology?"

"No, I've been given a day off as Erika Herald is the only patient currently inhabiting my office. The murder victim, you know."

Laura emerged from in front of the television with a mop of tangled blonde hair. "Gimme a minute, let me comb through this mess, and then I'll be off. I want the apartment still intact and sparkling when I get back." Brush in hand, Laura hailed a cab and drove off to work.

Irene grinned like she was the cat who got the canary, goldfish, and cream at once. She threw on a pair of black pants, a white dress shirt, and her gray coat before hurrying out into the city.

Irene's first destination was to go to the crime scene. She stepped into the bushes and changed into the uniform of a police officer, then stepped into the baggy blue bags that they all had to wear. She took in every little detail, pausing at nothing to make sure she knew what it all looked like. She hoped desperately that she was not recognized. If she was, she would be suspected of murder, lose her job, and have to deal with a very angry Laura. Irene made her way to Erika's desk. Under it were several pieces of paper. She slipped on the gloves she had brought for this very purpose, picked them up, and read them.

The papers contained nothing, save for the half eaten watermelon and a message:

_Tick-tock_

_Tick-tock_

_The pink half is eaten._

_Artist at the heart of it,_

_Murderer, murderer, murder bit by bit._

_Plunge and write,_

_We had no fight._

_Crimson rain,_

_Leave no stain._

_Wash away all rivers of pain._

Irene was puzzled. What did red rain have to do with it? She pocketed the paper and turned tail, scurrying out the door. All in all, the message on the paper was not frightening at all, but maybe it was a code. Or better yet, a riddle. She grinned again.

"Hey, who's she?" asked a newcomer to the police force. He had noticed Irene. Irene cursed mentally. How could she have been so careless as to not disguise her demeanor and face? Now she was caught. Irene racked her brain to think of a suitable story that wouldn't seem too awkward, but thought of none. Darn. Panic. Panicking never got you anywhere, she had realized. She took a deep breath and calmed down. Maybe the fact that she had pickpocketed Laura's second ID would come in handy. No, she and Laura looked nothing alike. The police officer strode over to her, his long, chubby legs covering a lot of distance.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but no civilians are allowed on or near crime scenes. Do you have a reason to be here?" he asked.

Irene couldn't hold still a minute longer. "I'm her pathologist!" she cried out.

"You did an autopsy report on Herald?" Now the cop was genuinely interested. "May I see it? I'm warning you, if you don't have it, you will be taken into custody. Present a valid ID as well."

"Erm... It's currently sitting in the CORAT. I think. It might be lost, too. And as for my ID, that is in the flat."

Irene growled. She should have remembered to bring her report and ID in case. She was quickly turning into an idiot.

"We apologize for the inconvenience, ma'am, but we're going to have to take you in. Anderson!"

A short, stout man with a face and hair like that of a Lego's walked in and threw a pair of handcuffs over Irene's wrists.  
"Walk," he commanded her, shoving his gun in her back. Irene groaned. The kitchen was still filled with arsenic and hydrochloric acid from three this morning. There were human fingers in the milk and ears toasting in the oven. And now Irene had gotten herself captured. She only hoped that Laura had enough money and good connections to pull her out.

Anderson threw Irene into the car before slamming the doors shut with a vicious slam.

"God, do you really need to do that? Prisoners should not lose the capability to speak before their trial," muttered Irene rubbing her wrists angrily. "People could die from manhandling, you know, Lego face. Laura! You lovely person, I'm sorry about the fingers and the ears and the poisons and the algae. Just help me now and I'll be good for the rest of the time, I promise!" she said, her annoyed tone throwing a pinch of sarcasm into the declaration.

Anderson turned the key in the ignition. They sped off in a blur of red, white, and blue flashes. Irene worked fruitlessly at her handcuffs, hoping that they would give way soon- her wrists were beginning to hurt. If only she could reach the small knife in her inside pocket, she would be free. Picking locks and hacking, among other things, were some of Irene's specialties. Unfortunately, while Anderson might look and act idiotic, he knew how to throw on a pair of handcuffs tightly enough so certain pathologists couldn't reach their knives. She growled softly.

Laura was heading home from work when she realized that her mobile was vibrating. She flipped it open.

"Hello, Dr. Laura Lockston here, neurologist. How may I help you?"

"She did what?"

"Okay, I'm coming over at once. She should know better than to do things like this. Oh god, don't tell me what I think you just told me. Doesn't she understand the importance of eating non-contaminated food?

"Okay, bye."

Laura hung up with a scowl. Irene was certainly going to be in for it, she thought. Sneaking on to a crime scene to see if she could find the killer, and then the poisons and body parts in the kitchen were all things Irene was Not Allowed in Any Circumstances to Do.

Half an hour later, Laura pulled up to the police station in a small motorbike. There was a small potted plant with lovely purple bell shaped flowers standing at the entrance. She wondered what it was for a minute, before being distracted by her actual mission.

"Irene, I do not want to hear any of your excuses at all. I've come to bail you out, but this is the last time I do it. After this, you can find the money and get yourself out on your own," ranted Laura.

"I did..." Irene said, looking furtively around her.

"Come along, Ms. Lockston. You are in big trouble."

Irene gulped.

The icy cold silence of the drive home was not broken by conversation. Laura got up, paid the driver, and stalked off to their flat to give a good talking-to to Irene. The woman had to learn to behave responsibly at some point.

"Irene, tell me, what the HECK were you thinking when you decided to go and solve the case on your own?"  
"That's not the point; I found a crucial piece of evidence that the police would want to have. Here, you can read it only if you promise not to punish me."  
"Oh no you don't! I am going to punish you, no matter what criminal evidence you show me. Can I see your phone for a minute, please?"

Irene was instantly on guard. "No."

"Yes you will, unless the things that do not belong in the kitchen are to be thrown out."

"Fine," replied Irene, tossing her phone at Laura.

She scowled darkly.

"Cool. Thanks, but you won't be getting it back for a week."

Irene looked as if she would murder Laura at any second.

Laura puzzled over the odd message Irene had found.  
"What on earth does it mean by there being an artist at the heart of it?" she questioned her sister.

"It either means that the killer was an artist by profession, or that the killer was an artist in murder. Really Laura, even to your limited intellect I would have thought you could figure the meaning of that out by yourself. But I agree, it is a rather interesting case, is it not? Beg off the CORAT for a few weeks, which should be enough time for us and the police to get this sorted out."

"Absolutely not, Irene," huffed Laura. The riddle was beginning to get on her nerves a bit. "While we do have enough saved up, we really cannot go gallivanting around Puddlemere solving cases. You are not Sherlock Holmes. You are not a detective. You are a respectable pathologist. Behave like one, for god's sake!"

"But…" moaned Irene, giving her best puppy dog eyes. She knew Laura's weaknesses. Sure enough, her sister sighed heavily.

"Fine, we will solve the case. But only after you have eaten something. When was it you last ate a full meal?"  
"When you fed me that sandwich."

"Good Lord, woman! You mean to tell me you didn't eat since last Thursday? You really aren't going to get fat, you know. Your body burns calories like nobody's business. You are rail-thin, Irene. I think your anorexia can wait for now. Eat," she ordered, shoving a plate of chocolate under the taller woman's nose. Irene gobbled it up in a matter of minutes.

"Now read me the riddle."

_"Tick-tock_

_Tick-tock_

_The pink half is eaten._

_Artist at the heart of it,_

_Murderer, murderer, murder bit by bit._

_Plunge and write,_

_We had no fight._

_Crimson rain,_

_Leave no stain._

_Wash away all rivers of pain_," read Laura.

Irene sank into a state of deep thought that either meant she was thinking or that she was sleeping.

"Hmmm... Let's see... Crimson rain means red liquid, most probably blood. So that becomes 'Blood leave no stain.' So obviously she was murdered where there was a source of water to be had. That's not half-eaten pink circle and the next two lines I don't know. The artist part I already explained. Aha! Now here is a good one. 'Murderer, murderer, murder bit by bit. This leads one to think that Erika died a violent and slow death. This is confirmed by the rigor mortis and blood loss. Cyanide was probably administered to her in tiny droplets. However, that gives us no clues as to ..." she trailed off, looking thunderstruck. "Laura! Laura! What if it wasn't cyanide at all, what if it was just almond essence? Do you remember when you came to bail me out, there was a green plant with lovely bell-shaped purple flowers and deep purple berries? At the moment I thought it was merely for decorative purposes. But now I know what it was. It was Atropa Belladonna, a highly toxic plant that can kill you slowly or just like that, depending on its dosage. No wonder no one thought of doing it, the scent of almonds put us on the wrong trail! No one thought of doing a toxin test on her, we all were thinking cyanide! But for the next part. That is confusing, even for my great intellect. What does plunge and write we had no fight mean?" Irene relapsed into silence.

This time it was Laura who piped up. "Irene, I think it means that the murderer and the murdered were not enemies. And as for the former part, I strongly suspect that the murder weapon was something you could write with."

"Laura, you are brilliant! No, scratch that, you are a positive genius! You just gave one of the answers to me!" Irene grinned, lifted Laura up and twirled her around.

"What...What did I say?"

"Of course! It was so obvious. I cannot believe that I didn't think about it in the beginning!" whooped Irene happily. "The culprit was a presumably a student form the university. I think Mr. Brian Whatshisname was the murderer. It all fits. It all does. Brian is the artist; he also is the artist in crime. I checked his papers; he took art for two years in high school. The pink circle, of course! It was the half-eaten watermelon! With numbers for seeds- a clock! Tick-tock goes the clock. It is all too simple. Far too simple. I really do not think that this is the solution for our puzzle. However, you, Laura, may have identified the only two pieces of evidence we actually have to go on."

Laura was crushed. To think that they had been so close to solving the mystery and had failed! No, this was certainly a clever killer who did not want to get caught.

"Well, then. Laura, if you are done with discussing this case with me, then I have some experiments to attend to." Irene leaped off the couch and glided away to the kitchen, no doubt to tinker away with the fingers and ears and the arsenic and acid.

Laura sighed. She scrambled upstairs, threw on a pair of comfortably fluffy pajamas, and hoped with all her heart that Irene would not decide to play her Stradivarius at three AM. Suddenly an idea struck her. "Irene," she called down the stairs. "Irene, where did you get the materials for your experiment from?"

"Nicked them from the pathology," came the shameless answer.

"Oh. Sorry. I thought you hacked them off Herald with your knife. Never mind now, go back to your work."

Irene turned around and began to work at the fingers. She sliced off a thin slice and placed it delicately on a small petri dish and pulled the ears out of the oven. "Good," she thought to herself. The ears were perfect. She separated a flap of skin to get at the cochlea and the tiny bones that resided there. She pulled them out, somehow retaining their structure all the while. Next she made a small incision in the finger and squeezed it so blood oozed out. She placed it on the finger slice and ear bones, then sprinkled arsenic over it. Irene donned her safety goggles and pulled on Laura's dinner party gloves. She frowned. Oh well. This was about to get dangerous. Slowly, carefully, Irene garnished the fingers with hydrochloric acid. And she waited. All of a sudden, the finger leaked out more blood. It quaked and with a tremendous bang, exploded. Blood, bones, and smatters of finger and traces of arsenic were splattered around the kitchen. Uh-oh. Laura had spent almost two hours trying to get Irene's algae out. This, if Laura bothered to clean it, would take at least a day. No matter, she always cleaned Irene's messes up relatively quickly. She glanced at the clock. Three AM. Time to go to bed.

She crawled into the covers of the bed that she shared with Laura, and snuggled down under the blankets. It did not take more than five minutes for her to fall asleep.

When Laura woke up, it was to a sight of Irene sleeping next to her with a peaceful, happy expression on her face. Hmm. Irene sleeping this happily was a rare treat, even if she did sleep regularly. Laura snatched her phone out from her drawers, and clicked the camera. She smiled. This picture would become handy if ever she had to blackmail Irene. Her sibling chose that moment to wake up, blearily rubbing her eyes.

"Laura, what are you doing with your phone out at this time of the morning?"

"Nothing," replied Laura, hastily trying to stuff the phone under her pillow without Irene noticing.

"Well, you obviously were not doing anything, although I am going to ignore your question for the moment. I'm going to get dressed."

Laura smirked.

"Me, too."

A couple of hours later, Laura was dressed and ready to get to work. "Now, Irene, I don't want you pulling any stunts like you did yesterday. I'm going to change the code of the security system, so you can't disarm it, and then I'm going to go to work."

This time, it was Irene who smirked.

"You know, Laura, I can crack codes very easily. It would be futile to change it," she blustered, trying to get out of it.

"As much as I am inclined to believe your words, Irene, I don't. So I am changing it no matter what you say." With that, Laura threw a dark blue blazer on and headed out the door.

Irene moaned. She waited until Laura had gone for sure, then leaped up to inspect the keypad.

"Hmm... What would it be? Laura? Irene? Her birthday? Her best friend's? Erm... Oh, yes, this has got to be it." She dialed the numbers 3.18.93. "Shame, Laura, one of the first rules of making a passcode is not choosing your first pet's birthday."

Irene ran through the shower, threw on her coat and scampered out the door. It slammed shut behind her.

She ran to a nearby gas station and asked the cashier.

"Would you happen to know which people in year Five went to Glunfield?"

"No, not off the top of my head, but I do have a list."

Irene grabbed the list and ran out without a thank-you to the woman.

She entered their apartment and locked the system again, no need for Laura to know about her little outing. Carelessly flinging the sheet of paper on the couch, she grabbed her laptop and began to type madly. She looked up the student's histories. Hours passed. There was neither movement nor sound in the apartment, save for Irene's fingers clicking hurriedly on keys. As time passed, the names on the list were crossed out one by one. Soon, there were only a couple of names left.

Irene read them out loud. "Amy Filler, Keller White, Ray Josef, Tucker Thomas, Olivia Graytomb, and Alan Fisher. All possible suspects for murdering Erika Herald. The problem is now, who actually committed the crime?"

Laura burst through the door, announcing in a grand voice, "Hello. Did you get into any trouble today? Did you go out?"

"Surprisingly, no, I didn't." An obvious lie, but then again, no one lied as well as Irene. "But I managed to lower the list of suspects to six. All the rest of the others did not have a motive, and others were chosen because they were special friends of Erika's."

"And how did you possibly conclude that it was a year Five person?" asked Laura, coming to Irene's side and reading the title on the list.

"Simple. The style and vocabulary were equivalent to a Fifth year's; I tried it out myself. See, here it is. To back my claim up, Erika did not have many friends, and those that she did have were not younger or older than her, they were her age. Erika was in year Five, hence the killer should be in the same class as her."

Laura looked stunned. "Well, you certainly have made a great job solving this little pickle, I must say."

"I have not solved it yet, but I have narrowed the list of suspects down considerably," Irene declared, looking extremely proud of herself. Laura did not blame her; she had just finished getting six suspects out of one thousand. Maybe she would forgive her for being a twat.

"I'm going to get myself a cuppa, you want some tea?"

"Nah, it's okay."

Laura entered the kitchen and exploded instantly. "IRENE LOCKSTON! What is a mixture of arsenic, acid, and various body parts doing splattered around the kitchen?"

"Nothing, the arsenic reacted rather violently with the cyanide, and that caused a tremendous explosion which resulted in the fascinating splatters that you now see."  
"Irene, as much as I am inclined to clean this bloody mess up, I will not. What'll happen when I leave to get married or something?"  
"You won't. I'll see to that. Besides, you have no boyfriend, suitor, and have not registered on an online site for either matrimony or dating."

Laura looked over to Irene perched on the couch. "You wouldn't happen to be using my laptop, would you?" she asked, grabbing it away from her sister.

"Erm. No I wouldn't _happen_ to be using, it, I _am _using it," she said, trying to snatch the laptop from Laura. "And if I do, then so what?"

Laura spluttered. "Why? Why? To most of us, private matters are to be kept private without other people finding out about them." She really was going to have to give a lecture about the importance of not intruding on someone's personal space and going through their files.

Her sister smirked. "Well but all I found on there last time I looked were pictures of teddy bears and bunnies and lipstick and makeup and other nonsensical paraphernalia relating to the likings of fourteen-year old girls."

Laura fumed and turned a brilliant scarlet which even an overripe tomato would be proud of.

"Get me my own laptop, then I will go use it and quit being a git," Irene said, putting her arm out to receive the computer. Laura gave it to her, thinking that this time she would change the password to something even Irene wouldn't figure out.

"See, here is the profile of the suspects. Amy Liu was a fifth year obviously; she studies medicine and intends to become a doctor, is close friends with the victim, Asian, she also achieved quite high grades on the essays and papers, hence she fits all of the clues. Ray Josef was quite the artist, he managed to make this," she said, holding up a print of Mona Lisa that looked very realistic. "He was known for telling outrageous tales and did a whole semester of Pottery. Hispanic," she finished grandly. "And as for Olivia Graytomb and Keller White, they are cousins, although they do not seem like it. Graytomb is the same as Josef, and White is the personality brother of Liu. Alan Fisher and Tucker Thomas are different cases entirely. Thomas is, from what I gathered, quite a well-mannered boy, but there are some distinct traits about him that point to a criminal nature. He is very, very reclusive, for one, highly intelligent, and enjoys gory pastimes, rather like my own preferences. Although you know, Laura, that I would never turn them to murder- even if I could execute a crime brilliantly. Oh, yes, I may be on the side of the angels, but never think for an instant that I am one of them.

Now to Fisher. Fisher cannot be classified as a suspect. However, I think he is someone to be looked after during the investigation. The only reason he came to be suspected is because his uncle was a clockmaker who made a clock shaped like a watermelon slice. That is not enough evidence to go upon; and I will be taking him off my list."

Laura had sat thunderstruck through Irene's entire speech; when the taller woman had said she was planning to solve the case, Laura had thought she meant just finding out who, why and where, not doing a full background search on the possible killers.

"Irene, thank you for that very entertaining lecture, you have now wasted two hours of my time and I have a presentation due tomorrow. So, do you really mind if I leave?" She heaved a sigh and headed to her room, laptop in hand, to work on the aforementioned presentation.

"But wait, Laura! I need to tell you something, two minutes," called Irene at the retreating figure of the shorter woman.  
"What now?" asked Laura, turning around with a groan. "Listen, this had better take a matter of seconds, because I really cannot afford to waste any more time."

"The murder weapon- It's a penknife!"  
"And tell me how exactly you figured that out," Laura demanded.

"The weapon had to be capable of writing and stabbing at once, hence I deduced penknife. There was a smear on Herald's body near the wound that added further evidence and proof to my theory. It's relatively simple. So all we have to do is to sneak into the crime scene at one in the afternoon, throw a rope over one of the university's towers, climb up, and hang on to a flagpole by a window, and then slowly lower one of us into the opening."

"You call that simple?" asked Laura incredulously.

"I said relatively simple. Of course I didn't mean it; that would be preposterous."

Here the blond woman clucked. "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, remember Irene. You stated that yourself."

"What you could do is to disguise yourself so that the police department doesn't recognize you, tell them you have had a brilliant idea regarding the crime, ask them to assemble the suspects and search them or their rooms for a pen, then see if it unfolds into a knife in any method whatsoever." Irene continued, ignoring her sister.

"I have heard that one of the little-known ones is to have a knife inside the very tip of the pen itself, and click the button for a prolonged period of time- say a couple of minutes, and then your knife will emerge. Those are my thoughts, figure it out for yourself."

"Remind me, why can't you go by yourself?"

"Because while the police are idiots, they would recognize me if I sauntered up to them- even in a disguise."

Laura sighed. Irene had won, as always. She was going to beg the police to line up pens belonging to possible criminals. So much for her plans of curling up with a nice hot mug of coffee and a good book; she had lied to Irene about the presentation. She really didn't want to be bothered by her sister today and just wasn't in the mood for her crazy chases. She dragged her feet, trudging up the stairs resignedly.

The next morning Laura was awakened rather rudely by a bucket of icily fresh water slapping onto her face. "What time is it?" she asked, blearily rubbing her eyes as she reached for the alarm clock. "Oh god, no, no, NO! It is five in the morning, how DARE you, Irene Lockston, wake me up?" she yelled, not caring if the old cat lady who lived next door woke up.

"Come on, I have to prep you. Remember, you are going to ask them for the pens today, and seeing as my skills at disguising are by far better than yours, I think I may as well do it." The much-too eager face of Irene popped up above the pillows. She dragged her reluctant sibling into the bathroom with a change of clothes. "There. Now take a shower and get ready, I'd rather do your makeup when you don't smell like an onion sprayed with skunk."

Laura scowled, holding up a tight-fitting purple shirt with a collar. "Really, Irene? Really? This is one of your shirts. I am not going to wear it."

"If you don't dress respectably, they will think that you are just some straggler who wants to meddle around with their work and won't give you the necessary information."

Half an hour later, Laura set out to the crime scene looking like a wholly different person. Two hours she returned, holding a Ziploc bag of pens and looking like herself again.

"I washed all the makeup off, but I did get the pens!" she cried excitedly, holding the bag of writing utensils aloft.

"Excellent," said Irene, taking the bag from midair, "Now let me see them."

She dumped the ballpoints on a sheet of brand-new white cloth and examined them, one by one; twisting and turning each one until she was sure that there were no more possibilities.

"Look, here's something. A thing of metal. The knife, perhaps?" Irene muttered to the older woman, fiddling around with the pen; twisting it around in her hands so that a small sharp shard of molybdenum popped out. She kept on twisting it, and handed it to Laura with a grin. "We have solved the case. Although likely as not, the murderess wore gloves to keep her fingerprints from getting on the pen, we still have one of her belongings. She will come to get it back, I know."  
"And how exactly did you deduce that the killer was a woman?" asked Laura, rather puzzled at the sudden inroad onto the mystery.

"The marks on the gripper could only be made with a ring slim enough to fit on a woman- or a very thin man-'s finger, and the small bit of nail lacquer there," Irene said, pointing the marks and chip of blue polish out to Laura.

"Still... could it not have been a man who let his daughter play with it?" she asked, determined to have Irene's reasoning on the clues.

"Shame, I thought you were intelligent. Out of the suspects we have, which man is very underweight and has a daughter old enough to marry? Come on, we have to go now," she said, throwing on her gray Botany coat and literally flouncing out the door. Ever the faithful sidekick, Laura followed her.

They sprinted along the streets of Puddlemere until they reached a building. Tall and gray with packages and tape and fluorescent orange cones standing in front of it, it strongly resembled an old, disused warehouse.

"Okay, so give me my mobile. I'll give you the number, you text," Irene panted, holding her hand out for the phone. "Here. Text 'come to warehouse on eleventh now'. Then after you're done, leave me here. It's a personal meeting."

Obediently, Laura flipped open her iPhone and fired off a quick text. "By the way, who was it I just texted?"

"Mmmh."

"Well then, who was it?"

"Classified information. Oh, there she comes. I did tell you to leave, you know. She might stab you with a knife or poison you."

"Irene, did I just text a murderer?"  
"Yes. It does not matter, hide before she sees you."

Laura ducked inside a (thankfully empty) dumpster, still reeling from the news that she had texted a _killer _not two seconds ago. Irene, in the meanwhile, situated herself so that she could not be seen; only someone who knew she was there would actually notice her.

The supposed killer sauntered up the dark alley leading to the warehouse, somehow managing to look like she was on the catwalk at a fashion show. Irene softly pulled a revolver from her pocket and edged out. Uh-oh. The murderess had seen the flash of movement and turned to look straight at Irene.

"No use skulking around, my dear. Don't you know that in polite company that should not be done?" she asked, the triviality of the matter and her sing-song tone somehow adding an impression of dangerous insanity.

Irene kept her weapon trained on the woman and ran after her.

The woman yanked a small dagger out of her pocket and turned. "There, now we are evenly matched. No use playing a game when there is not an opponent, no?"

Irene sped up, picking up her pace so that she was on the woman's heels.

Laura jumped out and ran after her sibling. Annoying or not, she was her sister, after all, and Laura didn't want her to die at the hands of some crazy killer. The only problem was she didn't know where they had gone.

The pathologist and the woman chased each other all over Puddlemere, both literally and metaphorically, turning a simple catch-and-capture-or-grievously-wound mission into a deadly game of tag. Irene chased after the assassin, winding her way into through twisting and turning streets easily, letting the woman lead her to a secluded area of the backwoods that surrounded Puddlemere. By the time she had realized this, it was too late. How on earth could she have been so idiotic, she mentally reprimanded herself. Of course the woman had been trying to take her to a spot where the human traffic was little to none. This mistake was going to cost her her life- or if she was lucky, a considerable amount of blood.

The woman stopped in a small clearing surrounded by trees. The hustle and bustle of the city seemed to be distant from this halcyon environment.

"No, no, no. I had you marked down as an extraordinary person, Irene. But how disappointingly ordinary you are. Shame on me for having believed that you were truly special. But I owe you one. Sorry, I didn't make myself clear that time, did I?" she asked. Receiving no answer, she resumed pacing around the pathologist. "I owe you a death, Irene Lockston. Your death."

Laura looked on the ground; more than likely Irene had left prints on the muddy ground. She looked. There were none. How _did _the woman move from place to place? Did she float? She looked harder for any sign of the direction Irene had gone in. She headed up the alleyway, and emerged onto a busy, bustling street. Some way ahead, she spotted Irene's gray Botany coat flopped over a bench. She grimaced. When Irene had unofficially taken on the case, it was supposed to end in a successful arrest, not the murderer killing the pathologist-turned-detective. From there Laura glimpsed the instantly recognizable footprints of a high-heeled shoe. Amy Liu. She tracked the pair of heels to a small road leading out of Puddlemere, and into the backwoods. Just as the owner had done not an hour ago.

Oh, no. Irene wouldn't have. So typical of her sister to get so caught up in the adrenaline that she wouldn't even try to learn what her prey was doing. More likely than not, Irene was lying on the ground in some clearing, bleeding to death, no doubt.

Laura quickened her pace. She ran swiftly towards the backwoods, her years of running marathons paying off in a desperate attempt to save Irene. As she sprinted down the sidewalk, she heard voices. Voices that she was sure belonged to Irene and Amy. Voices that at this moment, were saying, "I owe you a death, Irene Lockston. Your death."

Laura screamed

"Hmm, looks as if dear, faithful Laura is here to keep you company in your last hours. How touching. That _is_ why you keep her, right? To serve as your pet? Otherwise, I would be forced to dismiss you as ordinary," she murmured quietly.

Irene shook her head. This woman, if she could be called that, actually belonged in a mental institute. She was insane.

Laura chose that moment to arrive on the scene.

"You. Horrid. Creature! Damn, damn, damn you. Keep your hands off Irene. I swear, if you lay a hand on her, I will kill you," she half shrieked, half whispered.

"Laura, don't. Don't do anything, don't move a muscle," Irene said. "Please. For your own safety, don't do anything."

"I really don't care, I don't want you to die!" hissed Laura angrily, dialing 911.

"Then do it for my sake. Please."

"This has been a touching little family reunion. I'm so sorry that I have to break it up."

Irene dug out her phone and sent a text to Laura. It read:

'No. Stay exactly where you are. Don't move. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this? This text, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.

Good-bye, Laura.'

Then Irene Lockston and Amy Liu simultaneously took a knife and a revolver, respectively, to the heart.

TWO MONTHS LATER

Laura was surprisingly in control of herself as she reached the cemetery; it was finally time to visit Irene's grave. The pathologist was buried under a shady tree, with a beautiful black tombstone. She walked up to it. The tears finally came. Putting one hand on it she said shakily, "Um. Um. You… you told me once that you weren't human. There were times when even I didn't think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best woman and the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me otherwise. And so... there. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me?"

She left, struggling to suppress the lump that was rising up in her throat.

From behind the trees, camouflaged in shadows, Irene watched. She blinked.

**Bibliography**

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